The room was quiet, save for the drumming of my fingers.
I lay on my bed — a carved wooden frame polished smooth by years of hands and bodies. Its legs were darkened from oil and smoke, and the thin goat hide stretched over it creaked softly each time I shifted. Beside me, a small brass lamp sputtered, its light throwing restless shadows across the mud-plastered walls.
On the floor, Nala sat cross-legged on awoven raffia mat, her chin resting on her palm.
"Tell me again," she said softly.
I hissed under my breath — not in anger, but at the sharp, shivering edge of my nerves. "You have made me say it three times already," I muttered.
Nala's gaze did not waver.
I exhaled, rolling onto my side, staring at the cracked earthen floor.
"I saw blood," I began, my voice a whisper. "The moon was black, the ground was red, and Idris stood at the center. He was calling to me, but when I ran toward him, the earth swallowed him whole. Then I heard the sound of iron clashing… and silence."
I sat up suddenly, clutching the edge of the bed as though it might steady me.
"I am afraid, Nala," I admitted, my voice breaking. "I am afraid they will bring his body back to me."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the soft night wind stirring the palm fronds outside.
It was always the same dream, every night since the day they left. Sometimes it played out differently — sometimes the sky was burning, sometimes Idris turned away from me — but it always ended the same: the earth swallowing him whole.
My mind drifted back to gentler days. Idris as a boy, arriving at the palace with dust on his face and laughter in his throat. The afternoons when we would sneak into the courtyards, playing until our grandmother found us, her cane chasing us like startled chickens.
And that day in the bush — when Idris had taken Maimuna too far and a snake had coiled before my sister. I had gone looking for them, heart hammering against my ribs. I found them, and before I could think, I seized Maimuna, drove my knife through the serpent's head. I could still see Grandmother's eyes widen, the shock that froze her tongue. My mother's gasp of horror had echoed through the courtyard, but my father… my father had smiled.
"I will get her a real dagger," he had said, pride warming his face. My mother's scolding had come swift, but it had not erased the promise I saw glittering in Baba's eyes.
As the years passed, Idris and I grew apart, each of us pulled by duty, by expectation, by the weight of who we were meant to become. But the love remained — stubborn, watchful, unspoken. He was my brother. Always mine.
"What if something has happened?" I whispered. "What if he is already gone?"
Nala rose, kneeling before me. She took my hands, her palms warm and calloused from years of work.
"Do not kill him in your heart before his body returns, Amira. Hold on."
I sank back, my shoulders heavy.
Eleven days had passed since the war party left. Eleven days of waiting, of whispers in the courtyard, of sacrifices at the family shrine. The palace women had begun leaving calabashes of milk and millet by the gates, offerings to the spirits of protection. Still, no word came.
I pressed a hand against my chest, wondering if Idris was alive, if he was hurt, if the dream was the gods' warning.
~~~
The battle was won, but victory tasted of blood and dust.
The plain was strewn with bodies — Kano and Uzazzu alike — and men moved like weary shadows, dragging corpses into heaps, chanting the names of the fallen so their spirits would not wander. Vultures circled overhead, their black wings blotting the sun. The air reeked of iron and smoke, of sweat and death.
In a tent set apart from the noise, Idris knelt.
His body was broken, his side still bleeding from the spear wound, but he did not care. His arms were wrapped around his father's lifeless form, clutching him as if sheer will might force the breath back into the King's
chest. His cheek pressed against cold armor, his tears darkening the stains of
blood already there.
Since dawn, he had not moved.
The Madawaki stood at the entrance, his face grim beneath the shadow of his helm. The sight of the young prince — bloodied, hollow-eyed — twisted something deep in his chest.
"Prince Idris," he said at last, stepping inside. His voice was soft, carrying a soldier's respect. "You must let him go. The rites must be done. I will see to his body. But you — you must find strength. The Yayan Agaji can tend your wounds."
Idris lifted his head slowly, his eyes red, fever-bright. For a heartbeat, the Madawaki thought he might refuse. His grip on his father tightened — but then something broke in him.
With a shuddering breath, Idris laid the King down. His fingers lingered on the man's chest for a moment, as though afraid that letting go meant saying goodbye forever. Then he staggered to his feet.
The Madawaki knelt beside the fallen King. With deliberate care, he straightened the monarch's limbs, wiped dried blood from his brow with the edge of his own cloak.
"A lion has fallen," he said quietly. "His roar once shook kingdoms. His shadow stretched over Uzazzu. He carried our honor, and he bore our shame. And
now…"
He looked at Idris, his expression unreadable.
"Who amongst us will rise to fill his place?"
The words hung in the air, heavy as the dusk settling over the camp.
Idris said nothing, but his jaw clenched, his face streaked with sweat and tears. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the weight of the question settled on his shoulders — a crown of thorns he had not asked to wear.